


who takes care of you?

by hupsoonheng



Series: questions for sam wilson [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>steve rescues sam from the raft and brings him to wakanda, because that's where it's safe. it's also where bucky is. </p><p>pitted against an inaccessible popsicle man, sam finds himself losing. t'challa notices, though, and invites him to breakfast. and lunch. and horseback riding, and anything else he can think of that might cheer sam up. who takes care of you, sam wilson?  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Then there are those mornings where Steve slips out of bed when he thinks it's too early for you to be awake, leaving a cold spot where the covers are thrown back. You will yourself back to sleep as if you don't know where he's gone, as if it doesn't make you want to wallow in how unimportant you feel. You take your breakfast in the kitchen, brew a strong pot of Wakandan roast. And when you're ready, you walk to the medical wing to find Steve where he always goes, sitting with his head bowed and his hands clasped as if in prayer at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	who takes care of you?

**Author's Note:**

> i know i said i would take a break from fics, but... you know, i finished an original short story, so i rewarded myself by writing this. i'm not sure how popular a ship this is? but my roommate requested t'challa taking care of sam, and it eventually evolved into this, so here we are. 
> 
> the foods mentioned are from ethiopia, because it's wakanda's neighbor, and wakanda occupies real world ethiopian space. also because there's like NO information i can find about the little things, like wakandan cuisine or native fauna. anyway uh i hope you like it

Truthfully, you'd lost Steve weeks ago. 

Steve still cares for you, of course, the way anyone would for a close friend and sometimes lover. He came and got you from the Raft, after all, and when he burst into the cell block grinning straight at you, you fully admit your heart swelled until it was ready to crack your ribs. You've seen that smile before, and it's always made you feel like you were Steve's whole world. 

Then he took you and Wanda back to Wakanda, with Clint and Scott Lang going their own ways, and at first you thought it was just for the safety of one of the most fortified countries in the world, sanctioned by no less than the King himself. 

You're not wrong about that, actually, but it's not the only reason. No, Steve goes back to Wakanda because that's where Bucky is. 

Not that Bucky is around, given he's been put on ice for the umpteenth time in his miserable long life. It doesn't stop Steve from being absent when you're together. He shares a bed with you in one of the many guest wings of the vast, modern, beautiful palace of Wakanda, but it's like it's only out of habit. Steve's back faces you just about every night, a wall of pilled cotton blend that makes you feel more alone than if you'd had a bed to yourself. But at least he's near you. 

Then there are those mornings where Steve slips out of bed when he thinks it's too early for you to be awake, leaving a cold spot where the covers are thrown back. You will yourself back to sleep as if you don't know where he's gone, as if it doesn't make you want to wallow in how unimportant you feel. You take your breakfast in the kitchen, brew a strong pot of Wakandan roast. And when you're ready, you walk to the medical wing to find Steve where he always goes, sitting with his head bowed and his hands clasped as if in prayer at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. 

It's the fifth such morning that you've found Steve like this, and for the fifth time you walk up behind him, put your hand on Steve's shoulder. The first time, it startled him, hands jumping apart as he twisted to look up at you. Now he only sighs. 

"He's not gonna be any different," you tell him, which is just a different wording of what you'd told him three days ago, and again two days before that. You take in the sight of Bucky Barnes one more time, with his shaggy hair, his unkempt facial hair, the seemingly permanent dark circles under his eyes. You wondered, the first and second time you came here, why they didn't at least clean him up before he went under, but now you theorize that it's the Band-Aid method of dealing with putting him away: The faster, the better. 

"I know," Steve mumbles into his palms. In Wakanda he wears sandals and linen pants for the warm weather, and it adds another layer of strangeness to all of this. Like it's too informal for these moments. "I just hate that he's put away like this." 

"It was his choice. The first choice he's made on his own in a very long time." You squeeze Steve's shoulder. "And I think he was very tired." 

Steve trembles under your hand at those words, and maybe they were a mistake, but you think they were also the truth. A tragic life is an exhausting one to lead, and with a minefield for a brain there is no chance for rest. Bucky chose this over grappling with the ordeals of being conscious. 

"I know. I know," Steve says, for the umpteenth time. He finally sits up, sighing again. "I'm sorry, Sam." 

"I don't know what you're apologizing for, because there's nothing that needs sorry," you say, letting your hand drop. Which is true and untrue, because you can think of a whole mess of things you want to hear Steve say sorry for, but when you think of telling him, your heart tells you to stop being petty. To let him grieve. 

"I miss him." You can't see Steve's face, but there's a choked quality to his voice, like he might cry. That's something you've only seen once before; Captain America doesn't have time for crying. "It's like—I only get him in snatches—" 

"You'll get him back again. T'Challa's people know what they're doing." You reach for Steve's shoulder again, and this time he covers your hand with his. "Come on, Steve. I still got some pancake batter left." 

"Alright." And Steve lets you guide him, up out of the chair and back to your quarters, into a chair and faced with a much bigger stack of pancakes than you'd insinuated. 

As safe houses go, the palace of Wakanda is the best you could have ever asked for. You and Steve have been given your own wing of the palace, which is barely generous what with the sheer number of wings available. The main room has thirty foot ceilings, an entire wall of windows, and a sunken living room, with long canvas-bound sofas. The kitchen is in the same room, just up the right hand steps of the living room when you enter, with a built in bar and a top of the line gas range. Gordon Ramsay would bust a nut in a home kitchen like that. The bedroom is no less grand, a king size canopy bed under a barely shorter ceiling, flooded with sunlight from the floor to ceiling windows, and the bathroom attached to it puts to shame every hotel you've ever known. 

There is no end to all the ways to stay entertained or otherwise occupied, either. Wanda takes the most advantage, filling her days with meditation, tai chi, and learning a variety of art disciplines. You think she might also be learning how to ride horses. Hardly the life of a fugitive. You could probably take up muay thai again, if you felt so inclined. 

Unfortunately, there's also vast opportunity to sit and do nothing, staring out one window or another at the lush foliage while considering how far you and Steve have drifted apart. There's also beautiful gardens that are great for these bouts of self pity, watching birds you can't even name as you overthink your relationship with a man who has never confessed to loving you. 

Not that you've ever been in an actual relationship with Steve. You've flirted with Steve, although you'll remind anyone who asks that Captain America flirted with you first. Your first kiss with Steve was after he'd showered away the grime of being on the run, that day he and Natasha dragged themselves to your door; that was also the first time you saw him naked, if only because your towels weren't fully capable of contending with Steve's muscular hips, especially when he was sitting on your bed. 

And the first time you slept with him came not long after, in Fury's safe house, your moment to breathe before taking on and taking down Project Insight. Steve came to talk to you, sit next to you on one of the provided twin beds, and he claimed he just wanted to set the plan straight, get his head tight on his shoulders. In the dim light your comforting touches turned into a full embrace, and that embrace became Steve pulling you down on top of him. You didn't fuck in the traditional sense, but you're grown enough that you'd count two men grinding on each other with their pants off as sex, and so is Steve. 

But nothing has ever been official. Not that there's time for "official" in your world, life happening in the cracks between crises. Not until now, anyway, waiting for a distant shoe to drop while you bask in someone else's luxury. And of course, now it doesn't matter, because Steve can't tear himself from Bucky—heart, body, or soul. So when he tears himself apart with guilt, with loss, with depression, you're there to put him back together. And when you're alone again, you tear yourself apart, and stay that way until you have to collect yourself to help Steve again. 

Sometimes you wonder if you could go under, too. 

After pancakes you lie in bed with Steve while he falls asleep to regain the sleep he missed this morning, because he says he doesn't want to be alone right now. It's easy to leave the bed once his breathing has slowed and evened, because he hasn't reached for you at all, simply curled up on his side and facing the edge of the mattress. You strap your sandals on, straighten your clothes out, and head out to your favorite corner of your favorite garden to try and quiet your brain. 

You're almost asleep on a wooden chaise longue, which is one of the easier ways to forget yourself, when T'Challa's voice wakes you all the way back up with a jolt. "I see you here often," he says, strolling up casually to the side of your chair as if he hadn't just snuck up on you in complete silence. 

"Yeah, well." You gesture at the birds, at the flowers, the big healthy green leaves everywhere. "It's pretty here. And quiet." 

"And lonely." T'Challa stands with his hands behind his back, elegant in an embroidered cotton tunic that emphasizes the squareness of his shoulders, and hangs over the same kind of pants you and Steve have taken to wearing. As odd as it is to see Steve in sandals, there's a different quality to the strangeness of seeing T'Challa so at ease. Friendly. You still have a very vivid memory of the Black Panther trying to grind your ass into asphalt. 

"Loneliness isn't a bad thing," you reply, although you do swing your legs out to get up, because it's unnerving having T'Challa loom over you like that. "Sometimes a person needs alone time, to get their head together." 

"Do you often need to get your head together?" It's like T'Challa's words are a precision laser, although you stop yourself from cringing. Is he playing with you? Has he already successfully psychoanalyzed you? King T'Challa has been educated in probably literally every subject since he was old enough to focus his eyes, so if he's Sherlocked your ass to hell and back you wouldn't be surprised. 

"It's been a lot, lately." A cop out. You shrug, avoiding T'Challa's gaze as you settle into standing at ease. Then again, T'Challa will probably also figure out that's something you only do when you're nervous, these days. "I just need to decompress sometimes." 

"Every day is not sometimes. You're going to make yourself crazy like this," T'Challa says with a click of his tongue. "If your mind needs to be taken off something, letting it wander where it will is the opposite of what you need." At least he doesn't mention what he thinks is on your mind, but honestly, Steve is not subtle in his emotions these days. No psychoanalysis needed. 

"Oh yeah? And what do you suggest?" you ask, tossing your head to point your chin at him. 

"A tour of the whole palace, to begin with." T'Challa gestures to the pathway that leads out of the garden. 

"What, now?" 

"Don't tell me you're busy," T'Challa says with a wry smile. You snort, rolling your eyes. 

"No," you say, throwing your hands up as you head toward the pathway, "no. I guess I'm not." 

The tour is exhaustive—and exhausting. The palace is bigger than you could have imagined, home to so many people it feels like a small town. You thought you had the gardens down, but T'Challa shows you that there's three more you had never even found. He shows you a great deal of his own quarters, including where he dines, and he invites you to lunch for tomorrow in a way that brooks no rejection. Not that you would—he's the king of the nation playing host to your fugitive ass, and the least you could do to show your gratitude is to eat breakfast with him. 

By the time you return to your rooms, it's been an actual five hours since T'Challa found you in the gardens, and your feet are blistered and torn by sandals not meant to walk more than a leisurely mile. Steve exclaims over them, kneeling in front of you as you drop onto the couch to peel your sandals off. He gets you a foot bath (because why wouldn't there be one of those just lying around?), and sits next to you as you ease your feet into it with a groan. He even asks you about your day, and you tell him in detail about the immeasurable breadth of the palace. 

"I'm glad you had a good day," Steve says with a smile. "You seem, I dunno, down lately." 

"Me? Down?" Your brows shoot up so far it's like they want to hide in your hairline. "That's rich coming from you, Rogers." 

Steve chuckles, scratching at the back of his neck. "Yeah, but that's my deal. I still want you to be happy, Sam." 

"Oh yeah?" You don't even realize you're leaning in until your shoulder brushes Steve's. 

"Yeah, I do." Steve leans in too, eyes heavy-lidded even as he still smiles with the side of his mouth. He kisses first, and it feels so good, this return to what you want. He cups your face, kisses a little more forcefully, and then he's tugging at your hips. Your wet feet drip down the front of the couch as you straddle his lap, and you moan into his mouth when you grind your hips down, find his cock with yours, thick and hot even through his pants. 

Steve grabs you by the backs of your thighs, stands up still carrying you, still kissing you, with your arms tight around his shoulders. He takes you to the bedroom, lays you down without losing the connection. You just spent hours getting your head back together, as you put it earlier, and now Steve is making a mess out of it all over again, except this is a mess you can deal with. Hell, you welcome it. He yanks you out of your clothes like they offend him, and when he can't wait for you to open his pants with the delicious slowness you like, he tears off his own clothes, too. 

You haven't been fucked by Steve since before the Vienna bombing. The bed is sturdy, but even it creaks violently when faced with Steve's thrusting, and god, you're glad you don't share any of these walls with anyone else with the sounds he pulls out of you. 

You missed this. You missed this so much. Steve's body pressed to yours, Steve's face flush and grinning between kisses, his nonsensical little murmurs of _look at you, look at you, just look at you,_ because he can't get enough of you, and he wants you to know it. You finally feel special again. Important, in a way you're not going to examine in the middle of an orgasm induced by Steve's own. 

You barely find the energy to clean up before you pass out, with Steve's naked chest pressed to your back and a strong arm thrown around your waist. You swear you fall asleep smiling, holding onto that arm. 

Except. 

Except the next morning, when the digital clock reads 4:49 AM.

Except when a chill passes across your back with the warmth leaving it, the mattress shifting with Steve's departure. And this time you can't fall back asleep, because this time you'd gotten your hopes up. You sit in the living room with no lights on, watching the dawn through the massive windows, and think about what a fucking fool you are, to think that you'd ever be that important. To think you could be anything more than a happy distraction when Bucky Barnes is a few buildings over. 

When the room is fully lit by the morning sun, you put your feelings away, and you go to tell Steve another collection of aphorisms so he can get on with his day. 

After you've put Steve in front of fruit, yogurt, granola—breakfast items he can deal with on his own, at any level of sadness—you shower and dress for breakfast with T'Challa. You choose cotton slippers (slip-ons, a less comfortable man might have insisted on calling them) because they won't cut into where yesterday's sandal's sliced you up, and crisp bright colors that make you look happier than you are. Steve doesn't even ask where you're going, engrossed in the bottom of his bowl of strained yogurt and sliced apples. 

"You are late," T'Challa says as you enter his quarters, though he doesn't look mad about it. 

"I had a little hold up," you say as you follow him to the dining room. 

"Did you?" There's something almost smug about the way he says it, but any reply you might have is wiped out by the sight of the breakfast table. 

There's more food here than you know what to do with, a literal smorgasbord you can only half-recognize. Among the piles of bananas, oranges and pawpaws—which you thought were little mangos until T'Challa corrected you—are things like what looks like a thin layer of egg puff pastry, a big plate of jerky and spiced shredded flatbread, and a steaming serving bowl of what looks like a textural cross between grits and mashed potatoes. There's also more American staples like scrambled eggs, sausage patties and toast next to a butter dish. 

"I did not want you to feel too alienated," T'Challa says with a wicked grin when you stop by the sausage patties. "But I wanted to share some of my favorite breakfast foods, too. So, a compromise." 

"This is way more than I can eat," you say, even as your roving eyes seem to disagree. "More than even two people can eat." 

"It won't go to waste, if that is what you are worried about." T'Challa pushes an empty plate into your hand, gestures down the length of the table before he reaches for a serving spoon. "Eat, and stop thinking so much." 

"It wasn't even that," you say, starting with a slice of the puff pastry that you drizzle with honey the way T'Challa suggests you should. "I mean, a little bit that, but more just..." Now some of the jerky stuff, just a little bit until you've really tasted it. "Is anyone else joining us? You can't tell me the King of Wakanda dines alone." A couple sausage patties and a healthy pile of eggs, because T'Challa is right about wanting a taste of home. A banana, and now you have too much food. 

"The King of Wakanda," T'Challa says, arching a single brow at you, "dines however he pleases. This morning, it is with you." He puts down his full plate and picks up a bowl, reaching for the porridge-looking stuff you can't put a name to. "If you take any genfo, put it in a bowl, and then put the berbere in the center. Like this," T'Challa says, complete with demonstration. Like gravy in potatoes. 

"So long as we're being this friendly, then, I gotta tell you, I don't fully understand why." You copy T'Challa, spooning out white glops until it becomes one bigger glop in a bowl, and pour in the... You're not sure what it is, exactly, but growing up in New York has made you a more adventurous eater than most. "Before Steve dragged my ass here, you and I, we were on two sides of a fence. Maybe you remember trying to pull me out of the air while you were trying to kill everyone's favorite popsicle." 

T'Challa looks away, somber in thought as he sits, his spoon digging into the porridge. Genfo, he called it. "The fence is gone, is it not? I think it is easier to be friends than to watch you skulk around the palace doing nothing with yourself or for yourself." 

"Hey, I don't skulk," you say, pointing at T'Challa with your spoon as you take a seat across from him. You chuckle anyway, because it substitutes having to address the rest of his sentence. "Fine. Clean slate, then." You mimic wiping a surface clean. 

"I thought perhaps the clean slate came yesterday, when I gave you a personal tour of my home and did not ask if you knew any of the birds we met," T'Challa says, and for a moment there's silence between you—and then you both burst into laughter. You don't even know if you're laughing for the same reasons; this is all so fucking absurd, having private breakfast with royalty while he quietly riffs on you, eating food you've never seen or tasted in your life. Which, for the record, is not bad. 

"Fine then. Clean slate, day two," you say, holding up two fingers like a peace sign. "You know, this genfo stuff ain't half bad. I almost thought it was grits from a distance, though." 

"Grits?" T'Challa takes a bite of pastry, chewing thoughtfully. 

"Yeah, you know. Uh, cornmeal—" 

"I know what grits are," T'Challa says with a wave of the royal hand. "I just have never tried them." 

You snort. "What is a grit, anyways?" you quote in your best approximation of an old school Brooklyn Italian accent, mostly to yourself. T'Challa looks mystified, and you're guessing he's never seen _My Cousin Vinny_ , either. "Sorry, uh—" Steve wouldn't have gotten the joke, either, at least. "What, grits not cultured enough for his highness? Too American?" 

"For the same reasons, I assume, that you've never had genfo." T'Challa smirks as you roll your eyes. "Should there be grits on the table tomorrow morning?" 

"Should there be—?" The question stumps you, for some reason, your mouth hanging just that little bit open while you really absorb that one. "I mean, that's your business what you have for breakfast." 

"Are you not joining me, then?" 

This man. Is he inviting you to eat with him again? Without even actually inviting you?

"Can I really say no?" you laugh, shoveling scrambled eggs onto your fork. 

"You may say anything you like," T'Challa replies, with none of your mirth. "Your time is yours. Something _you_ should take care to remember." 

For a second you just frown at him, but he's not meeting your expression, just digging into the jerky scraps with gusto. 

"What's that called, anyway?" you ask, pointing with your chin. 

"Quanta firfir." T'Challa's smile returns. "Do you like it?" 

After that, there's no more talk about what you need to remember, or why you're here, or anything more serious than favorite colors. T'Challa's is red. His favorite time of day is the light-dark before the dawn, when everything is awake and quiet at the same time. His favorite time to train, on the other hand, is noon, when everything is too awake, when everything is noisy with an energy that flows into him. You say you can't imagine that being anything more than overwhelming, and he says you should try it with him. If not today, definitely tomorrow. "I'll get you to sweat, at least," T'Challa says with a grin. Which makes you pause, but T'Challa just finishes his meal with a pawpaw, spitting out the bulky seeds. 

You think about going back to your quarters, or sitting by yourself in the gardens like you used to before T'Challa came along. Steve is probably done being overtly sad, shifting into functionally sad. He might be gone, hitting punching bags somewhere, but his sadness is like some kind of ectoplasmic residue, and it's gonna be all over that living room. And the gardens just seem lonely now. 

"Fine, beat the shit out of me," you say, dropping your spoon into your emptied bowl. "Lemme see what you got." 

"Beat the shit out of you, you say?" T'Challa laughs. "That is up to you." He stands, and you half-expect him to hold his hand out to you. Instead he just straightens his clothes as you get up and push your chair in, and leads you out of his quarters to yet another part of the palace. 

You don't know what you expected from training with T'Challa. Maybe something like an intense gym session, or something out of your military days. Some kind of Bruce Lee training montage, even. But T'Challa trains in different styles of fighting on different days, because there are so many in his wheelhouse—of course—and today is capoeira, which you don't know the first fucking thing about beyond that one episode of Bob's Burgers. 

And he's right, in fact—he gets you to sweat. You sweat so much it gets in your eyes, makes you blink hard, especially when you fall on your ass after getting more air than you expected, but still less than T'Challa is pulling off. You're wheezing while he's still rough and rowdy, and when you sink to the floor in a spread-eagle puddle, he spins in asshole circles of kicking around you. 

"Yeah, alright, rub it in," you pant, watching him whirl. "I hope you get real dizzy and puke all over yourself, how about that." 

T'Challa stops abruptly, drops smoothly into plank formation like he's practiced this move—right over you. His face is upside down to you, and there are droplets of sweat threatening to splash your chin, but he's grinning like a fiend. "I don't think you want that now, do you, Sam?" 

It's strange, hearing him say your name. You don't think he's ever called you by anything except _Falcon_ or _you_. And your heart thumps extra hard, obnoxious and unbidden. It must be because of the workout, you tell yourself, even as your face heats with embarrassment. 

"Man, stand up," you groan, rolling onto your side to look for some measure of control. "I need space if I'm gonna remember how to breathe right again." 

T'Challa sits up, still snickering while you zone out on the mat floor. "I see the American military goes easy on its soldiers," he says, and you roll to your other side just to glare at him. 

" _No,_ it's that _your_ Wakandan ass goes way too hard for no reason. Ain't nobody need to know this many ways to beat someone's ass!" 

"I have never heard anyone say _ass_ as much as you." 

"And I've never heard someone use like, no contractions, at all, but here we are." It feels like your lungs might be returning to something like normal, but this banter feels something like normal, too, so you don't tell T'Challa. 

"I used a contraction three sentences ago," T'Challa says with a sniff. 

"You ain't supposed to be counting." You roll onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows as you laugh. "Listen, you wanna go—fuck, I don't know, you wanna go ride horses or something?" 

"Ride horses." T'Challa looks at you like you're sick. "I am not finished training, even if you have reached your limit." 

"I don't think that body's gonna quit just because you missed like, thirty minutes of dance fighting," you say, pointing at T'Challa's sculpted chest. 

"Ninety minutes," he corrects, and you just curse. 

"Alright, well," and you push yourself up, ass first like a toddler because you're still kind of noodly, "like you said, man, my time is my own, and I wanna ride horses. I don't know shit about riding horses, though, and I don't wanna hurt your fine steeds. You wanna come show me what to do, or lemme fumble through this shit by myself and break some Thoroughbred's spine?" 

"I don't have Thoroughbreds," T'Challa says as he rises too, but there's a little smile there. "But fine. I will show you. Put your shirt back on." 

And you very seriously spend the rest of your afternoon, way more than an hour and a half, riding and otherwise fucking around with horses with T'Challa. This is so far from DC, from Harlem, that sometimes you verge on wondering if you're dead. He rides this big ass gelding as black as his panther suit, and you get to ride this enthusiastic mare with black points and a predisposition to tossing her head. Wanda rides with you for a short while, too, but then she takes off in some other direction—and she gives you this look you don't really care to interpret, something going on with her eyebrows and the quirk of her mouth. 

You get back to your quarters still smiling, buzzing with the thrill of newness, and it rubs off on Steve. He makes his best attempt at dinner, and you secretly add extra seasoning while telling him it looks great. (It seems mean to critique him when he's trying.) You tell him about your day, and that devolves into him telling you stories about the shit he used to get up to with Bucky. Most of the stories you've heard, and the one you haven't is not that different from the rest. Then he gets quiet, of course, and he leans his whole weight, sadness and all, on your shoulder. 

It's selfish to be disappointed. Of course Steve doesn't want sex, not when he's so heavy with emotion he can't even say good night. If it made you feel wanted, it was a bubble, waiting to be popped by the morning. Steve needs you just like this, to help carry his grief when it's too much for even his Atlas hold. 

And yet you realize there's a note of relief there, too, just tiny enough that you don't remember it when you wake up. 

In the morning you retrieve Steve from Bucky's room for the third day in a row—these used to be more spread out—and put him to bed because he won't do anything else, and you know he's sleeping too much lately. Then you go to breakfast with T'Challa, and you're met with the sight of grits in place of genfo, with plenty of butter and black pepper to go on top. There's biscuits instead of the flat pastry slices, buttery and flaky and so close to the ones your father used to make on Saturday mornings when you were a kid. There's still sausage, there's still eggs, and that quanta firfir stuff hasn't gone away, since obviously T'Challa loves it. 

You tell him about your father and his biscuits, and the way he died, and T'Challa reaches across the table to put his hand over yours and squeeze. He knows. 

T'Challa takes you to another training session, where he rolls you around in a first lesson on Brazilian jiujitsu until your body is limp with exhaustion. You ask for horses again, and this time you ride out far past anywhere you've ever gone on royal land. You tell T'Challa you've never seen anything so beautiful as Wakanda in your life, and he comments that today the sights are even better, but he changes the subject when you ask him what that means. Like, are you missing out on a cool animal or something? 

Steve kisses you when you get back. He says seeing you so happy makes him happy in turn. You want to draw a line, push him away for the sake of your own heart, but you're so goddamn weak, you let Captain America kiss down your chest and belly until he reaches your dick, let him swallow around you as you come. You listen to him brush his teeth as you drift off, and there's this twinge of dread in your chest that refuses to explain itself. 

Your days fall into a new rhythm, more or less. Steve is with Bucky in the morning, or he is not. You take your breakfast with T'Challa, as well as lunch after training. Even in only this short amount of time, you can feel your body strengthening in new ways, and it invigorates you. After lunch T'Challa shows you something new, because there's _always_ something new, even if it means driving off palace grounds. (You like those trips a little less, because the Dora Milaje is required to go with you, even if it's only one or two of them. It makes your time feel infringed upon, somehow.) You return to your quarters; Steve is infected by your good mood and initiates sex you're not strong enough to reject, or he is not. The knot in your gut tightens every time he is. 

And when he is, it guarantees that the following morning he'll be gone. 

It's been a little over two weeks since you started regularly spending time with T'Challa, and you enter the living room of your quarters with your usual residual smile. You made out a little better with capoeira today, although T'Challa still literally ran circles around you. Then you went out hiking together, T'Challa pointing out native Wakandan wildlife while you tried to keep up with both his explanations and his pace. He let you shower in his quarters afterward, despite your ability to just walk a little longer to your own shower, because after the hike you sit just outside and talk. Overall, a good day. 

"Sam," Steve says from behind you, and you turn away from the door. And your smile freezes. 

"Are those flowers?" you ask through your sudden rictus. 

"Oh. Well..." Steve grinds a toe into the floor, smiling bashfully. He looks like old Steve when he's like that, the Steve who's not depressed, the Steve not too grief stricken to function. And yes, he's holding a bouquet, though the flowers are exotic to you. It's big, it's bright, and it's for you. 

"What's this about?" You step down into the living room, and Steve holds out the flowers. You take them, fingers tingling as you wrap them around the stems. 

"I've been..." Steve licks his lips. "I've been thinking a lot, Sam. About what I've been doing here, waiting for Bucky to—" He doesn't finish that sentence, squeezing his eyes shut. "I haven't been fair to you." 

You search his face. Always so earnest; his brows knit with worry, his red mouth parted just that little bit even as he gives you that little smile that tells you he wants your approval. 

"I don't know how to respond to that," you say at last, because you want to agree with him, to his fucking face. But you don't know that it's productive, that it wouldn't just hurt his feelings. 

"What I'm saying," Steve says as he takes a step toward you, "is I want to focus on you more. No—I want to focus on you. Period." He slips a hand under your jaw, caresses your cheek with his thumb. "You deserve better than I've given you." 

This is your dream, of course. Steve Rogers basically professing his love for you, with _flowers_ for fuck's sake. Steve Rogers looking for—what? A relationship? He says he wants to focus on you. That's what that means, right? 

You want to accept, on behalf of your past self's deepest desires. Finally, an end to the vagueness, the bullshit. An end to all your self-pity, and the inexplicable knot that's been wrapping and twisting ever bigger inside you. 

"I can't do this," you say instead. Your voice breaks on it. 

"What—" Steve's hand falls away from your face, confusion making his features twitch. "What do you mean?" 

"You wanna focus on me how? You want a relationship with me?" You thrust the flowers back at Steve's chest, and he stumbles back with the force of it, as if you could ever knock down Captain America. His hands make a loose curl around the flowers, everything about him dazed. "Then say it." 

"A-alright, fine then," Steve says, blinking rapidly as he frowns. "Sam, will you—" He clears his throat. "Can we—" 

"I gave you the words." You know he won't say it. He can't. You don't want him to. 

"Sam, please." 

"Please, nothing." You storm past him, into the bedroom. You stop at the dresser, gripping the top of it with nothing to do. You just—you had to walk away from him. 

"I want a relationship with you!" Steve bursts into the bedroom shortly after you, and your heart seizes up. "I do! Just because it's hard for me to say doesn't mean I don't feel it!" 

You lean your elbows on the dresser top, putting your face in your hands. "No you don't, Steve. That's not what you want." 

"You can't tell me what I want. I know what I want." He tries to come stand next to you at the dresser, but you turn your whole body away. "Sam." 

"I know," you say, voice thickening because you are _not_ going to cry, because you are going to stay strong through this and get these words out, "that you think you know what you want, and that you think you want to be with me, because you're a kind and moral person." 

"I don't understand." 

"What are you going to do when Bucky wakes up? Like, let's say we get together. Boyfriends," you say, turning to look at him. You don't mean to spit out that last word quite the way you do, but it's done, and Steve looks down like he's going to find it on the floor. "And your boy Bucky wakes up, gets his head fixed. A new man, ready to be the Bucky you remember." 

"That's not fair," Steve murmurs. Oh Jesus, his shoulders are shaking. He's trying to stay strong, too, it looks like. 

"What happens then, Steve?" 

"He can still be my friend." Steve's voice is so small. "I don't have to choose between you and him." 

"But you will, is the thing. It doesn't matter if you love me, or if you even just trick yourself into thinking you do," you say—dangerous waters when he's never said that word himself. "Bucky is your world, Steve. You've been through too much together, had him snatched away too many times." 

He can't even deny it. He just looks at you, all big blue eyes full of salt water, all heated cheeks flushed full of humiliation in the face of truth. 

You swallow around the rock in your throat you're trying to ignore. "There was never anything between us," you say, slow with your graveness. 

"That isn't true. Sam, you know that. Even if we never put a name to it—" Steve has the audacity to reach for you. 

"It's what I need to be true, Steve. If I'm ever—" You bite your lip, glaring at him in another effort to keep the tears in. You won't fucking do it. "If I'm going to get over this. If I'm gonna get out of this alive." 

It's an arrow to Steve's heart. You can see it as it punctures the skin, invisible as it stabs through his chest to come out his back, dripping with metaphorical blood. 

You've seen Steve cry before, the way almost nobody else has, but it's different when it's because of you. He doesn't sob, doesn't even open his mouth, just flooding his face while he traps hiccups behind his teeth. He doesn't stay in the bedroom much longer, though, taking off into the living room. You stand at the dresser for another minute or so, and when you look in the living room, Steve is gone. 

You know where he is. 

That night you sleep in the center of the bed, spread eagle with your resolution to not feel anything. And the next morning, you do not go looking for Steve. You bathe and dress for breakfast instead, arriving to T'Challa's quarters right on time. You don't tell him anything about last night, instead falling into anecdotes about when you were teenagers. T'Challa was a very different boy from you. 

After jiujitsu and a second shower, T'Challa tells you has somewhere special to show you today. You tell him everything he shows you is a special this or important that, and he smiles warmly. He says this is different. 

"Okay, so usually you tell me what's going on, either on the way there or, you know, right around this point," you say as you pass through smooth wooden gates. T'Challa locks them behind you while you look up. It still looks like you're outside, but—is that some kind of netting up in the sky? You have to squint, and even that doesn't really help. 

"I am confident in your ability to figure it out," T'Challa says with a snorting little laugh. He wears sky blue cotton today, which pops against his skin, makes the pastel look rich. You notice when you walk together that he's almost the same tone as you. "If not now, oh, let us say in the next five or so minutes." 

"What's that sound?" you ask as you head further down the widening path. "Jesus, how many birds are here?" 

"Ten minutes, perhaps," T'Challa cackles. 

"Don't tell me," you say, just a few steps away from a clearing with an ornate gazebo in the center. Now you see the birds constantly swooping overhead, the overflowing feeders that dot the trees. Now you see the gazebo is riddled with birds you can't even name, colorful and strange to your American eyes. Half of them flap off as you approach, but T'Challa doesn't merit the same response, and he walks ahead of you into the gazebo. 

"Are you not joining me?" He jolts you out of your trance, as you try and fail to look at literally every bird. 

"This is an aviary!" you exclaim, guffawing as you turn in a circle. "This is your big special thing? You're a cat with a bunch of pet birds?" 

"If I am a cat, you are a bird that follows me wherever I lead you," T'Challa says with a smirk. "So who is more foolish?" 

"Me, definitely," you admit as you climb the short steps into the gazebo. "I don't know how you keep this thing so clean." 

"Diligence," he says, patting the space next to him on the wrap-around bench. 

"There's no way you clean this yourself." You take the seat, still looking around like your head's stuck on a swivel. 

"Why not? I'm not above anything." T'Challa produces a small bag of grain, spills some into his hand and holds it out. Two little birds come to perch on the meat of his thumb, pecking at the grain. 

"I've never seen you out here before." 

"Just because we spend a lot of time together doesn't mean we spend _all_ our time together, Sam," T'Challa says. You'd think by now his usage of his name wouldn't produce that sudden nervous reaction anymore, that _ba-BUMP_ of your heart, the sensation of knowing where all the capillaries are in your face. But he's still so sparing with it. "I am up quite early." T'Challa offers you the bag of grain. 

"Me too," you grumble, before you can stop yourself. You pour grain into your palm, too, but your Disney princess moment doesn't come. 

"I never see you roaming the grounds so early," T'Challa says, frowning. "Steve, yes, but—" 

You can practically hear all the pieces clicking into place in that clever brain. "Does Steve wake you when he leaves to see Barnes?" 

It's a simple question. The answer is yes, of course; you don't have to tell him anything else, and you know if you tell T'Challa as much, he'll move on. 

Instead your head is flooded with the sound of your own rushing blood. Grain spills through your fingers as your hands go slack, and birds hop to feast on the mess. 

"Sam," T'Challa says, and a warmth blooms on your shoulder. His hand. You try to shake your head, but it happens in what feels like slow motion. Your breathing feels heavy, and your vision feels _blue_. 

"Come," he says from somewhere above you, but you don't know why he bothered, because one hand cradles your ribs while the other slips under your knees, grips you by the thigh. 

T'Challa carries you all the way back to his own quarters. Not even halfway there your eyes are clear and your lungs have steadied, but all the energy has been pulled out of you, so you can't even protest that you're a grown man who shouldn't be carried like that anywhere. 

The bed is soft as you sink into it, bones made of gelatin. T'Challa sits besides you, legs trailing off the edge of the mattress. His hand finds yours, and you curl your fingers a little tighter in gratitude. This is so humiliating. 

"Sam." There it is again. Your heart is sore. "How do you feel?" 

"How do I feel?" Your mouth feels mealy and dry. "Like a child." You meant to say _Like a limp noodle_. 

"You are not a child," T'Challa says, almost like he's chastising you. "You are a man in pain." 

"Just let me get over this, and then let's both forget it ever happened. Then we don't have to talk about me being in any kind of pain. How's that sound?" You pull your hand out of T'Challa's, resting it on your chest. 

"Just because I did not realize you were being kept awake by Steve's visits to Barnes does not mean I have not noticed you." T'Challa leans over you, tucks his fingertips just under the edge of your palm, a silent question. You answer by lifting your hand, and he takes it with a squeeze. "Who takes care of you?" 

You glance up, taking in T'Challa. Big, inquisitive dark eyes under thick brows that come together with concern for you. The barest hint of a widow's peak at his hairline. A mouth that catches on his teeth on one side when he asks again, "Who takes care of you?" 

"You do," you reply, almost a whisper. 

The kiss is an accident. You pull at T'Challa unthinkingly, and T'Challa follows your hands down so easily. There's nothing insistent about it—he presses his parted lips to yours and lingers, a long shallow breath against your mouth before he kisses you again. 

Except he sits up abruptly, looking as unraveled as you've ever seen him. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should not have—" 

"You take care of me," you say, finally rolling forward to sit up as well. "Let me take care of you." 

T'Challa chuckles, shaking his head. "You are always taking care of everyone, Sam. Don't worry about me." When you open your mouth to protest, he holds up his hand. "For now, please. I promise I will not stop you from doing whatever you like later, but it must be later. Right now..." He reaches for your shoulders. "I will take care of you." 

He pushes and pulls at you until your head is cradled in the valley of his lap, and one hand caresses your hairline, gentle and slow. "You do too much," he tells you as your body melts into the bed anew, this time with relaxation instead of stress and fatigue. 

For the next hour, T'Challa holds you like this, listening without judgment as you tell him about Steve, and about Steve with you, and you without Steve. He doesn't condemn either one of you, only nods when you falter, to let you find your voice again. There is no advice offered until the very end, and it is only that you can't carry everyone's problems. 

"T'Challa," you say, and for all the handful of times he's called you by your given name, this is the first time you're using his. 

"Yes." He looks down at you with such a secretive little smile, and your heart swells, a lot like it has when Steve's looked at you this way, except different—because this is for T'Challa. 

"I think I like you, man." You return the smile. 

"I think so, too," T'Challa laughs. And he curls over you, kissing you again from up above. 

Instead of going back to your quarters, you spend the night in T'Challa's. You imagine, with a good chunk of guilt, Steve coming back to a dark and empty living room, an equally empty bed, and how alone he must feel. 

But you confess as much to T'Challa, and he reminds you that you can't keep dropping your own issues to take care of Steve. Steve is not your child, he says. Then he says you're welcome to sleep beside him, and you curl into his warmth, and any worries about Steve fall away. 

Not the very next day—because that would be too happy a coincidence—but the day after that, Bucky is awake. 

The doctors have not had a full breakthrough, but they have enough that they want to begin Bucky's therapy. Something about neuropathic therapy in tandem with the traditional talk-it-out method. A highly controlled environment, with only a handful of thoroughly vetted Wakandan doctors—and Steve, and T'Challa, and sometimes even you—given access to it. There will be no Zemos. Bucky will be safe. 

When you arrive, Bucky is already awake, albeit looking like he's got a hangover. Steve is already there, of course, holding Bucky's one hand with both of his. He's talking animatedly to his old friend, and Bucky looks like he's just bearing it for Steve's sake. Something you can relate to, you guess. They both look up when you and T'Challa enter the room, and Steve grins. He ought to have a tail to wag, looking like that. 

Steve glances at you, then at T'Challa. There's a little back and forth, there, and his grin changes with some kind of realization. His eyes soften, the corners of his mouth falling a little as he notices, you guess, how close you stand to T'Challa. The way T'Challa's hand brushes yours, over and over again, just shy of holding it. 

"Hey, Sam," Steve says, still wearing that sad smile. 

"Hey, Steve," you say with a nod of acknowledgement. "Just wanted to check in, man." 

"They said they're gonna flip my brain inside out, or something like that," Bucky says, his voice scraped raw. 

"Something like that," Steve agrees. When he looks at Bucky again it's like a lamp turning on, all the sadness vanished in an instant. "They're gonna get you fixed up, pal." 

"Punk," Bucky snorts, yanking his hand out of Steve's. He grins from under his hair, though. 

"Hope they fix up that nest on your head, too," you say, and Steve looks contrite on your behalf, but it makes Bucky laugh, which makes Steve relax in turn. 

You don't realize T'Challa left your side until he returns, apparently from talking to the doctors. "Let us leave them to it," T'Challa says, just to you. "Come, Sam." 

"Yeah, alright." You clap Steve on the back, hold out your fist for Bucky to bump with his, and trot after the already departing T'Challa. "Where you wanna go now?" you ask him as you catch up. 

T'Challa gives you an almost stern look. "Where do _you_ want to go?" 

You pretend to give that serious thought. Or well, there's a little bit of thought. You could stand to get a second, less interrupted look at the aviary. You could also always go for a horseback ride, which you've discovered is so much goddamn fun. But you've made up your mind before T'Challa even finished asking the question. 

"Why don't we head back to your place?" you say, reaching for T'Challa's hand. 

T'Challa only gives you a wicked smile in reply, and turns to head that way, pulling you along after him. You can go back to the aviary later.

**Author's Note:**

> please don't be afraid you won't be eloquent in a comment if you think you want to leave one! i love even the most incomprehensible comments tbh. i should do some original work next, but i have some sambucky prompts i'd also like to work on for my own sake, so... look for that next? i guess? thank you!


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